


Come, Creator Spirit

by marybarrymore



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Metaphors, sibling bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marybarrymore/pseuds/marybarrymore
Summary: Dunstable's work flowed beautifully in the air. The hail of the crowd hearty and full of joy. Yet from the makeshift crown to the tender face of the young king beneath it, from the cardinal overseeing the ceremony to the opulent dome and hastily erected platform of Notre Dame. Everything was wrong.And the Duke of Bedford knew not how to fix it.
Relationships: Henry V of England & John of Lancaster 1st Duke of Bedford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Come, Creator Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to [The Herald Preceded the Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760368), but can also be viewed as a seperate work.

Harry’s letter, written to him from Fécamp, crossed the sea with a bundle of others: to the Council, to the Mayor of London for money, petitions answered by the King, and letters rebuking Council after the King had answered the petitions. He looked it over briefly and tended to throw all of them aside, but the messenger waiting on him said – rather untimely - that there was a certain letter to my lord of Bedford, which had been on top of the file when he got it, but had been, by the tempest of the Narrow Sea, thrown to he knew not where. He took a look at those two pounds of letters at his feet, and, peering at the messenger, bent down to search through those beautifully written petitions, and it was some time before he saw the King's familiar handwriting amidst a widow’s petition for a pension and a knight’s complaint against his neighbour.

He had a bad feeling as he opened the letter, and imagined that Harry had written to him in person, either because he desired more money and men, or because Harry was displeased with something he had done as Custos - though he couldn't fathom what heinous things he must have done to cause the King’s displeasure as he reached for the sealing wax. So, he was quite caught off guard when he saw the words ‘très amie’ as he unfolded the letter. His eyes widened a bit, and his ears went slightly red. The messenger had slipped away at some point. He looked at the letter more closely, turning it over for further inspection, before he was finally sure that the handwriting on the letter was unmistakably Harry's own, and not another of his dear brother Humphrey’s practical joke.

Harry seemed exceedingly well-pleased. His letter was hastily written, and if any chancery clerk dared to write such scrawl as he did, that wretched creature would surely be stripped of his pension and kicked out of Westminster without further ado. The paper still bore the marks of alterations, the letters with long trailing tails stood out at him, through which his brother's voice spoke to him. The French are frightened out of their wits, said Harry, in a contemptuous and cheerful tone, I have sent Humphrey to Cotentin, and Thomas to Lower Normandy. If only they have had the wit to surrender so easily when I besieged Harfleur! It would have saved me a great deal of trouble. The Duke of Bedford looked up from the letter and thought of the prisoners in Fleet, all forgotten left without food or clothing and not allowed to pay their ransoms, shook his head, and went on reading it with downcast eyes. Harry talked about the evil of the Scots, saying that I told you they would descend on us once I’m gone. Had I not reminded you of it we would all be caught unprepared. I've heard that the Scots are going to join forces with the French, so you should be more careful, lest this alliance bear fruit. Tell them to patrol the sea with more care. I pay for all the seamen, and they shall do their duty. And he complimented John on his timely response against the Scots, making his ear reddened even more. “It’s a pity those coward Scots fled the moment they caught sight of you. I know you always want a good fight with that Douglas. But as he now allies himself with the French, surely you shall have the chance to knock out his remaining testicle very soon.”

"And, John," Harry said casually as he was about to finish the letter, but John knew his brother too well to be cheated by such an appearance, "That's a fine composer you lent me. Mind giving him to me? I'll trade Power for him. If not, I’ll keep him for a while still. That new motet he's written for me is excellent, and I'm not going to let him go until he's written a dozen others for my chapel."

John let out a faint laugh at Harry’s impertinence and finally managed to recall whom Harry had borrowed from him before he left for France. He should have known better. His brother had long been infamous for borrowing books and never returning them, and he should have known that his highness would do the same to his men. Heaven knows why he was out of his mind and allowed Dunstable to leave with Harry when Harry asked for him. What did Dunstable write for you? He thought curiously, as he sat back in his chair and started to write back to Harry, trying to suppress the wry smile on his lips.

He got the answer, much later.

The choir sang their long, tedious note back and forth, praying for the mercy of the Holy Spirit, and he thought they didn't sing it as sweetly and gently as when he first heard it with Harry. The king sprawled on the platform, before the throne, a black spot on the fabulous brocade from his position. He turned his head to search for familiar faces, looking to the Earl of Warwick's wrinkled face and tried to meet his gaze. Richard should remember. Richard must remember. But Richard's gaze fixed to the King's direction, the wrinkles in his forehead prominent. Richard didn't look at him, the tenor's high-pitched falsetto slightly stilted, and no one other than him seemed to remember the difference.

Perhaps all motets were the same to their ears, the long, tedious notes, and indistinguishable Latin, men singing the same unchanging praise. But he knew it was different. The late king's royal chapel was unparalleled throughout Europe and had been the envy of emperors and kings. He arrived in Normandy with his army and shook his head at Dunstable's new work. And you have the nerve to call me blasphemous when Dunstable wrote about the Baptist, he sighed at Harry, The Holy Spirit comes, bringing righteousness and peace. Is this praising the Holy Spirit? Or you? Normandy was settled then, and Rouen surrendered, the rebels who had tried to assassinate the king brought to justice. Harry took him from England to Normandy in place of Humphrey and gave him the castle of the ancient Norman Dukes as his palace, then with a grave face, told him to find a way to fill up the Norman coffer for him. I'm asking the Holy Spirit to help me bring peace, Harry argued, his eyes glowing slightly. The king is but a vessel for the Holy Spirit. John laughed at his brother's seemingly absurd confidence and the reality that made this confidence far less absurd.

He was no fool, and he'd grasped something after some time at the royal chapel. Harry had reluctantly returned Dunstable to him, and the composer faced his inquiry with downcast eyes. Indeed, my lord, you speak truly. You are talented. The man seemed to be smiling slightly from the corners of his sunken eyes, or perhaps it was just his illusion. These two motets … they are indeed a pair. The Baptist prepares the way for Son of Man, and the Son of Man comes …

But the Son of Man returns to the Father after but thirty-three years on earth, thought the Duke of Bedford bitterly as he stood in the Notre Dame, wearing his ducal coronet and his sable gown, raising his eyes to the high altar. The choir's voice was sharp and piercing, praying the Holy Spirit to grant the reward of virtue.

Nothing but words.

The king was sitting on his throne on the platform, his two short legs dangling in the air, and Beaufort, in his scarlet garments, was placing the crown of France on the child's head. The Duke of Bedford looked towards the king and saw the boy's eyes wide open. His hands made a move, as if he was not accustomed to the heaviness of the crown on his head, and wanted to reach out for it. But remembering what the adults had bidden him, he controlled himself, and, bitting his upper lip, looked towards his uncle's direction. The Duke of Bedford felt himself softened as he met the boy's gaze. After all, the king was only a child, a few years Harry’s junior when their father made himself king, when Harry spent the day holding the Sword of Justice, and at night flopping down on his bed grimacing and crying out that his arm ached all over. He was not at the king's coronation in England, but he had heard Warwick say that the king had gone through all those tedious processes with grace, never for once made a mistake. The thought pained him, and he nodded in the king's direction with a reassuring smile, seeing the boy's nervous complexion relax a little and his tender face lit with a shy smile.

He felt that he ought to be glad. He _must_ be glad. When the nobles of England, Normandy and France saluted his king, their king, and when they knelt before his throne and stretched out their hands to pledge their allegiance to him. He should have rejoiced. Had he not sacrificed nine years of his life for the very sight of this? But his heart was overflown with sorrow, and he pressed his sleeve to the corner of his eye and blinked before he could open his mouth to join the cheers. Fortunately, the joy of thousands of knights and nobles reverberated beneath the dome of Notre Dame, and his voice was buried in it so that no one would hear his pain. Everything was wrong. everything went wrong. From the makeshift crown to the tender face of the young king beneath it, from the cardinal overseeing the ceremony to the opulent dome and hastily erected platform of Notre Dame.

It is not supposed to be like this. A voice chattered in him. You know very well what it _should_ be, don't you?

He watched as Saint-Pol walked towards the king. The voice still chattered in his ears, and he knew that it spoke the truth. Burgundy was absent again, and this time didn't even bother to find an excuse. He wondered, not for the first time, if Harry had made the right decision insisting on an alliance with Burgundy. But if Harry had still been here, Burgundy would never dare to show his arrogance. And Harry should have been here. This King Henry, surrounded by the crowd, should have been his brother instead of his nephew; his coronation should have taken place at Rheims instead of Paris; the crown he wore should have been Charlemagne's crown instead of the little coronet hastily made. Everything was wrong, completely wrong. His mind wandered back to a sunshine afternoon centuries ago. Or was it only a decade? It was just as if a century had passed in his recollection. The memory of that carefree afternoon shadowed by quakes and fires and the pending doom. The Antichrist had come, the Babel had long since fallen, and the Eden had since vanished from men’s eyes. The chapel royal was rehearsing for their performance upon signing the treaty. The words "loosen the chains of strife, tighten the bonds of peace" buzzing in his ears for most of the afternoon, and in the end, he felt that he could have taken the tenor's place with much ease. Naturally, the Epiphany was most appropriate to perform _Veni Creator_ , and everyone knew that once the treaty was signed, the accession of the King of England to the throne of France would be a fact. Thus, what should be performed the next day bore a great resemblance to an actual coronation. Thomas was alive then, jumping up and down, fussing and arguing with Harry, stirring up the drowsy afternoon air. Harry smiled at him, leaning on a cushion on the cupboard. When Thomas had had enough of the complaint and had run out of words for a moment, he laughed and said Thomas don’t be ridiculous, you've only sworn the oath some two or three times and you think you’ve had enough of it? It is useless to quarrel with me. You know full well, for you are the head of the English nobility, and have from me granted land and title in Normandy, therefore you must be the first to swear allegiance to me tomorrow. And when I am crowned King of France, said Harry, with a smile on his face, you will still be the first to pledge allegiance. That only drove Thomas into one of his usual tantrums again. But they had grown, and never dared to rashly pull the king into a fight like they had done to the Prince when they were kids.

But Harry was never crowned King of France, and Thomas never to swear his allegiance at the coronation of the King. The Duke of Bedford walked towards the King and knelt before the throne, raising his folded hands before him and feeling the King's tender hands over his. How small the king's hands were, so unlike his father's. Harry's hands were slender and strong, the knuckles thick with calluses from years of fighting. He remembered the warmth of Harry's hand wrapped around his. He looked up and saw Harry with smiling eyes said rise, Duke of Bedford and Earl of Kendal, you will always be faithful to me whether I lose limb or life. He looked up and saw a pair of almond-shaped eyes, and for a moment almost burst into tears, opening his mouth and almost calling out Harry's name. But those eyes were of an unfamiliar colour, with no warmth in them, but emotions he couldn't recognize. He regained his wits, swallowed the weeping that had reached his lips, and lowered his head before his king, swearing all the oaths demanded of him, without hearing or caring what he had sworn.

Why should he care? What must be sworn he had long since sworn. Harry's hand was in his palm then, pale and cold. The signet dangling on his bony finger. The crucifix in his hand kept sliding down and he patiently put it back into Harry's hand. He wrapped his hands around Harry's fingers to help him hold the crucifix, and Harry looked at him calmly, his lips lifted into a slight smile, as if he couldn't hear the suppressed sobs and weep from everyone else in the room. He had talked with de Lannoy in secrecy, and it was only after de Lannoy had left Vincennes and gone to Paris to report to his master, seated in the city and waiting eagerly for the king’s demise, did he summon the peers of England to his side. He never knew exactly what Harry had asked the man to bring to his master, but he was able to piece together some of Harry’s promises and requests. He raised his eyes to Anne. His wife caught his gaze and smiled reassuringly at him. Harry's alliance with Burgundy, despite its many defects, had brought him such a perfect wife, so it seemed that he was in no position to complain of it. He remembered when he and Anne had been in Troyes - before the witch had descended upon them, when Troyes was still theirs, the heart of the Burgundian court. He had taken Anne's hand in the Parish church of St. John, and his young bride had looked up at him with timidity in her usually sedate eyes. He had gone out of the house where Harry had lodged; trod the same path that Harry had walked, to marry his bride in the same church as Harry married his. The chapel royal had almost disbanded after the king's death, and most of the singers had been taken under his wing. These same men, standing in the same church singing the same songs, called on the Holy Spirit for aid and praising God for his might. He took Anne's gentle hand in his and wondered what Harry was thinking as he stood before the same altar, holding his little bride's hand. He never knew. Perhaps Harry had loved Catherine as he had loved Anne, but perhaps Harry never cared, marrying her only because she would bring him France. But he knew Harry, and he knew that Harry was the best at deceiving himself. Even if he never cared about his wife, he would feign his affection and fool the world, his bride as well as himself into believing otherwise. Three years apart they had kissed their brides to the tune of _Veni Creator Spiritus_ , receiving the rewards of joy, tightening the bond of peace - the joy of the Regent of France and his bride, the bond of mutual friendship between England and Burgundy - and he knew he must tread Harry’s path, to be his successor and his shadow. For Harry lived within him, and he lived to fulfill Harry's dream.

He turned his attention to the altar of Notre Dame and watched as his peers knelt before the king and raised their hands to him. Many of them had been with him around the king that was, weeping silently in sorrow, for fear that their sobs would bury the king's last commands. Harry's lips moved and he could barely make out his brother's whisper. He remembered Harry's lips brushing his cheek, cold and damp and dying. John, Harry said, his voice hoarse, lifting his voice with what force which was left of him so that those around him could hear his commands, you shall go to Normandy and keep it through God’s grace. Men and money you shall have, and dispose of them as you will. Whatever happens, I demand you to keep the country. Harry looked at him with light in his eyes, like the stella comata they had seen in their childhood. Until when? He asked Harry. Harry didn't answer, but closed his eyes in agony. He waited long, so long that thought Harry would never answer his question, before Harry opened his eyes again. His eyes hollow. The comet had fallen, leaving no trace in the firmament. Until my son comes of age, Harry said, trying to hold his hand, his fingers trembling. John, he said, you must live.

It was then when he finally realized that he was going to live without Harry. It was something too heinous that he had never dare imagine. He had always believed that Harry would always be there. In his dreams for the future he never dreamt that he would not be by Harry's side. He thought they would go on like this until they were old and dying, when he had gout and couldn't ride or dance and Harry wearing snow-white hair and beard like that of his great-grandfather's portrait. But the messenger rushed into Troyes and rolled down at his feet, telling him that the king would not live. He abandoned the army and took Warwick and Exeter with him, never rested until they had rushed to Harry’s side. Harry looked down at them with downcast eyes, holding the Pope's reply to his letter in his hand. Why must you wail my death? Said Harry softly, taking out his handkerchief and wiping the sweat and tears from his face. If I die now, I shall obtain fame, glory and renown forever, and you will remember me as I am, valiant and unconquerable. If I live, I shall through natural cause fall into infirmity, as weak and dull as King Edward, and be the laughing stock of the world. Therefore, why should you grieve? Since I have avoided such misery, and shall leave the pains and cares of this miserable world to enjoy the celestial kingdom, would you not rejoice for me?

A tear slid down from the corner of the Duke of Bedford's eye, slipped silently into the collar of his garment, and disappeared. He thought he was finally able to answer Harry's question. He wept, not for Harry, but for himself, for Harry had left them with the pains and cares of the miserable world, and left them in a futile struggle to retain what he had achieved. The stirring voice of the choir rang into his ears, crying out for God's mercy to cease strife and bring peace. But Gloucester turned against him, causing havoc at home; Burgundy secretly negotiating with Charles, on the verge of abandoning their cause; Beaufort deprived him of his power as Regent of France, in spite of his inheritance and Harry's will; the little king stood before the altar of Notre Dame, and in English tongue addressed the bewildered nobles of France. The celestial joy had been withdrawn by God; chains of strife tightened around the world; the Eternal Peace nothing but vain words; and the King of France and England empty title and a bargaining stock. The Holy Spirit never comes again, nor shall the one who ruled by the grace of God.

And yet, he had to live.

**The Song, _Veni Creator Spiritus,_ can be listened [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZ7DFZ4vCyY)**

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for using the motet _Veni Creator Spiritus_ in this work is also from Nosow: "Given the close structural, numerical, and source relationships between _Preco preheminencie_ and _Veni Sancte Spiritus_ , they were probably conceived and performed as a pair for the daily memorials of Henry V. " _Veni Creator_ which appeared in the Old Hall Manuscript, very probably was performed on Henry V's wedding or/and the signing of the Treaty of Troyes. Both _Veni_ and _Da Gaudiorum Premia_ which loosely based on it was likely performed on Henry VI's Paris coronation. For more info. concerning Dunstable's works for Henry V and Bedford there's a BBC programme [The Early Music Show: John Dunstable](https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000lv8x) available now. Here I've placed the composition of _Veni_ not upon the signing of the Treaty of Troyes but in 1417-18 when Henry V went back to Normandy.
> 
> The Coronation of Henry VI at Notre Dame was quite a failure and ended the tradition of successful Lancastrian Propaganda.
> 
> The evil of the Scots: the Foul Raid of 1417. The Earl of Douglas, which lost one of his testicles at the Battle of Shrewsbury, finally lost his life at the Battle of Verneuil against Bedford.
> 
> Henry's request for Bedford to keep Normandy: from the memorandum of 1427, where four witnesses admitted that the king had asked Bedford to 'draw him down to Normandy and keep the country as well as the remnant of his conquest'. To Bedford's questioning he had replied that his authority there was to last until his son came of age.
> 
> 'I shall obtain fame, glory and renown forever' etc.: adpoted from Hall's chronicle.


End file.
